Not Ever
by Hikary Sanoko
Summary: The Italy Brothers cannot afford to fall in love, no matter what. But sometimes it's not up to them. Light GerIta and Spamano
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Not Ever**

**Hello readers! Hope you guys enjoy my newest Hetalia fic! **

**This isn't necessarily a multi-chapter story, there will only be two chapters and then it'll be complete. And to clear any confusions, this first chapter deals with Spamano and the second chapter will have GerIta.**

**Read and enjoy guys!**

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><p>Romano wondered why he put up with Spain at all.<p>

It was like the forever smiling Nation was immune to the cursing and whatever other shit Romano threw at him. If anything it was like the bastard actually _liked_ how he was treated and he seemed _encouraged_ every time Romano protested against the hugs (Spain held on tighter the more he squirmed) and kind, teasing words.

He hated it. He hated Spain for never leaving and smiling all the damn time like he had no better place to be. He hated how he himself couldn't bring himself to be angry _because_ the Spanish bastard never left his side. He hated how his heart would (as cheesy and stupid as it sounded) skip a beat whenever Antonio (_Spain_, he reminded himself) snaked his arms around him and squeeze the hell out of him because he thought the verbal abuse was cute.

It was during those sappy moments where Romano _needed_ to push the cheery bastard away and make it damn clear to _stay the hell away from him_. It was those moments were he needed to be his cruelest and remind himself that it was for his own good and he wanted the bastard away from him anyway!

He never did. Never told Spain to go away and stay away. The few times he did drive the Spaniard away, Antonio always came back with a bigger smile and warmer hugs. And he felt relived every time he saw the older Nation come back, only to later curse and despair over his failure to keep Spain at a distance.

He tried to remind himself of the warnings Rome had given him and his brother before he passed on. Romano tried to convince himself that Spain didn't give a damm about him, the affection in his words and actions were just an elaborate ruse to lower his guard so that Spain could take his inheritance away. Spain was only using him and would throw him aside once he no longer needed him around.

It never worked. He knew Spain would never do that to him, no matter the circumstances and the knowledge made him _happy_.

Some days, the closeness made him want to break down and cry. He wasn't stupid. He knew the signs and what he felt meant and knew what the Spanish idiot was always trying to convey to him. And dammit, _Romano_ couldn't afford to love Spain; _Lovino_ couldn't afford to love Antonio.

A ruse, that's all it was. Everything that Antonio (_Spain, dammit_) was doing was a lie, a lie meant to get Romano to trust him so that he could have a go at his inheritance. And besides, there was nothing to love about him anyway! Lovino was lazy and mean and a coward and his brother was better than him-

"Ahh Lovi~ Your face looks like a tomato~!" said Spaniard gushed happily, rich green eyes twinkling in amusement as the Italian's face reddened in angry embarrassment.

"Bastard! Who's fault-!" His screech was cut off as he felt a pair of soft, chapped lips gently pressed against his own.

'_Nonononono! He needed to push the older nation off! He could already feel his half-assed defenses crumbling the longer their lips pressed together. And god dammit, he felt warm and fuzzy and he _liked_ the searing heat that Antonio's body gave off when he wrapped his arms around his waist-_

And before he knew it, he shyly pressed back against the other. Only for the other Nation to lean in closer and Romano couldn't help but feel a hopeless fluttering in his chest of contentment and for once he didn't mind that the Spaniard was so close that the casual outsider would know right away what they were doing.

"Te quiero mi pequeno tomate. Te amo tanto Lovino~" Antonio whispered sweetly against the Italian's soft lips, pressing a small butterfly kiss on the corner of Romano's mouth. The Spaniard pulling him closer when the younger Nation's face flushed beautifully from the tender words.

And really, Romano stood no damn chance once the sweet, loving words were said. And he was just so…happy being surrounded by the older Nation's arms and his heart did back flips the longer he stayed close to Spain. And he loved every second of it. _Has_ loved every second of it since he was young but in denial.

"Ti amo anch'io." He uttered with just as softly and he poured as much love he could into the three words. This time the Italian was the one to lean in and press his lips against the Spaniard.

It wouldn't be the first or the last time the two Nations did this. But after hundreds of years of avoidance and attempted distance between the two and violent shoving of emotions away-Romano _couldn't_ go back.

He _wouldn't_ go back to the days that he spent in inner turmoil and denial. What he wanted was to spend his days, months, years with the stupidly happy Spaniard who never abandoned him for the last few centuries. Who put up with no matter how nasty or violent he got, who would never stay with him so long for a stupid inheritance or give up on him in preference for Veneziano.

Unlike before where the idea made him sick, he now felt a soft hum in his chest that was warm and pleasant (not that he would ever admit it) and he would never give it up for anything.

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><p><strong>So...any good? I've never written Romano or Spain before and hopefully I didn't mess up <em>too<em> badly. **

**Any feedback on the characterization would be helpful in the future in case I decide to write more on this pair.**

**Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Not Ever**

**The second and last chapter.**

**Thanks to those that read, reviewed, favored this story!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Italy sometimes liked to dream about the old days.<p>

He liked to remember the warm sunny days spent painting with his grandfather and brother. He liked to remember the days he lived in Austria's house, afternoons spent listening to him play his piano. The endless days he spent talking with Hungry over anything and everything.

He remembered his time with Holy Rome with a mixture of love and anguish. He _loved_ reliving the old days were they would play by the river, or teach Holy Rome how to draw and paint or Heinrich and Feliciano (Holy Rome had ever questioned why a 'girl' had a boy's name) would spend endless hours in a sea of colorful flowers and by the end of the day Italy would have a brightly colored flower shy tucked into his hair by the red-faced blond-haired boy.

Then there were the days he dreamed of long days eagerly waiting for his love to return victorious with new lands and a smile on his face as he ate the sweets that Italy had lovingly made for him. Only to later realize that all his years (_centuries_) of waiting were for nothing because the sweet blond Empire he had been waiting for was long gone and was _never coming back to him_.

The time that followed the day when France had uttered the words '_He is no more_' where filled with an inconsolable despair and a heartache so sharp that Italy wished his heart could just stop beating because the pain was just too much. In denial Veneziano spent the days (months) and afternoons that were once meant to be spent with Holy Rome in front of the archway where they had parted, hoping that _maybe_ France had lied and Heinrich was on his way back and all he had to do was wait a little-

But he never came and it had taken the combined forces of Austria, Hungary and (surprisingly) Romano to pull him away from the archway. Months' worth of denial finally burst and he cried and cried so much that he wanted to just end it and at least he would be able to join his love in the afterlife.

But he was too much of a coward for that and he could never abandon Romano either. It was at this point where he decided that no love was worth the anguish of heartbreak. He vowed that he would never love anyone again (_only Heinrich because he could never make himself stop loving him, he'd tried and failed_).

So he lived on, everyday a sharp reminder of 'what if's and 'if only's. Every day a struggle for him to do the basic functions and over two centuries became emotionally stunted to most things. Instead he'd learned to wear a veil of joyful smiles and idiocy and for the other Nations 'ignorance is bliss' became true.

Then came Germany.

Sweet, strong, disciplined blond hair and blue-eyed Germany.

Germany was both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing Ludwig's uncanny similarity to Holy Rome was striking and he thought if maybe Heinrich had lived then he would probably look like Germany. The longing that Italy had worked so hard to bury for decades came rushing back and he latched on to the German because he found that he could at _least_ pretend that Holy Rome was with still him.

What harm could it do? He was only lying to himself, so it wouldn't hurt anyone other than him. And besides, if only for a while, he felt what remotely would be called 'happiness'.

On the other hand, it was a curse. Ludwig's similarities to Heinrich didn't just end with appearances. The two also shared similar quirks, such as the way they scowled or the way they both carried themselves in a disciplined manner. Or the way their cerulean eyes were glazed in a sleepy haze when they first wake up. Or how when they had a goal in mind they never gave up on it until it was accomplished.

Sometimes the similarities made it hard trying to reminding himself that this was Germany and not Holy Rome. Those days he struggled between a blissful 'what-if' joy and trying not to run away from the painful reminder that Germany sometimes was, it wouldn't be fair to his friend if he ran out on him without explanation.

This state continued on for a few decades since WW 1.

And now a days it was nearly impossible to stay in Ludwig's presence for long periods of time, mainly because lately somewhere along the way Italy began to feel stronger emotions for the German. And no amount of attempted distance dispelled the feelings and it seemed to make them stronger to the point that Veneziano would cave and go see the other Nation just to settle the raging emotions. And the Italian wanted to cry because he should only feel these…_feelings _for Holy Rome and only for him.

Not someone that he was using as a sort of replacement.

But here he was; loving Germany despite his own warnings and precautions to not fall in love again because it only brought pain and misery to him in the end. His only comfort being that these feelings were one-sided and Germany could never possibly return them. Until Valentines' Day. After everything was said and done and Germany realized that he had misunderstood Italy's intentions with the flowers he thought that they would simply forget that this whole day happened and move on.

But that didn't happen. Ludwig had this blank, glazed look in his eyes in the days that followed and Italy was worried. The German seemed out of it most of the time and he sent the Italian weird, guilty looks with a slight blush on his pale face before looking away. It was during one of these times that Germany, seemingly out of nowhere, willingly embraced Italy and leaned in close;

"_I have loved you since the 900's_." the achingly familiar words were whispered in such a tender, loving tone that Feliciano nearly cried because an age old, self-crushed hope was startling suddenly reality. And he knew that Ludwig wasn't pulling his leg or was some kind of coincidence that he picked the very sentence that he held dear to his heart. Any previous promises of forgoing love and everything associated with it went out the window simply because the latter had _kept his promise_ of returning even if it wasn't in the way he thought he would. He also knew that even if they were the same person, Italy had loved Holy Rome but now loved Germany even more than the latter and he couldn't find himself feeling the slightest bit guilty over it.

Italy didn't hesitate to press his lips over the Germans', and soon the two were lost in the sea of long repressed emotions and the utter relief of _finally_ because they have waited hundreds and hundreds of years just for this one moment.

If centuries of pain lead to this one moment of a beginning of continued bliss, then Italy wouldn't mind doing it all over again.

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><p><strong>Now that I read this, ending seems kinda rushed huh?<strong>

**Thanks for reading! **


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